


Pestilence Takes Manhattan

by silentplanetgirl



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Original Work
Genre: COVID-19, Coronavirus, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pandemics, Plague, Sick Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:21:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23918203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentplanetgirl/pseuds/silentplanetgirl
Summary: So, I'm a young person living in NYC in the middle of this goddamn pandemic, and I love Good Omens. I have family and friends who are on the front lines, so I've done quite a bit of research on this disease, and I've decided to incorporate it into a fan fic. All of the locations mentioned in this fic are absolutely real, and all the information I put forth about the disease has been researched and verified to the best of my ability. I will ALWAYS include sources in the footnotes of this fic. If any information needs to be corrected (which it probably will be, we're learning new things about this virus all the time), I will make a note of it in the notes of the fic.As to the plot, basically Pestilence comes late to the apocalypse party, and our boys have to go face him in New York.I included a "Graphic Violence" tag, not because anyone gets beaten up or tortured by anyone else, but because this virus is (to borrow a medical term) gnarly as heck and I describe the symptoms of it IN DETAIL.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	1. Preposterous

**Author's Note:**

> CW: COVID-19, Death, Destruction, poaching, uh...pangolins?

The Huanan Seafood Wholesale Market in the Chinese city of Hubei was hardly the most prominent tourist attraction the city had to offer. 1,000 tenants and vendors squeezed into 540,000 square feet of land located a few hundred meters from the train station. The eastern half of the market was devoted to seafood, pork, beef, and other domesticated meats.[1] The western half was devoted to what the locals referred to as “野味” or “ye wei,” meaning bushmeat.[2] Contrary to what would later be stated by various mortal pundits, none of the unfortunate wild animals sold in this part of the market were bats.

One of the newer bushmeat vendors at the market, a balding man who’s hood hid a face covered in sores, could attest to this. “Bats,” he would later murmur to himself. “Preposterous!” 

Their little furry bodies with their quickly moving wings, naturally high body temperature, and their relative immunity to inflammation made them excellent primary vectors for the little strands of RNA that were about to be unleashed on the unsuspecting shoppers at the market.[3] However, it was not bats that were being sold by the old man. 

To be one of the unlucky creatures sold in the western half of the Huanan Market, one had to be tasty, possessing of sometimes spurious medicinal properties, or both. Bats were neither. 

So the old vendor, with his gloved hands, hidden face, and glassy blank eyes, had brought two different kinds of merchandise to the market: 3 civets, and 12 pangolins.[4] all of whom had already been infected by the virus the man had cooked up in the little lungs of the bats. 

Both animals, he had decided, were worthy vessels of the disease. However he’d decided early on that he couldn’t afford to rest too many hopes on the civets. He’d used them ten years before for a similar purpose, and had been horribly disappointed by the results. 8,000 cases, and only 810 deaths! He’d grumbled to himself. That was barely 10%.[5] That outbreak had started in China as well, and the old man had thought briefly of changing the setting. But this was the most populous country in the world. There were so many  _ people _ here. Young people, old people, thin people, fat people. There were young healthy students with rosy cheeks, bright eyes, and plump red lungs that were constantly expanding and contracting, and there were old sick people gasping their way through their last few years with pipes that had been blackened and withered by smoking, age, stress, and sooty air. 

It was too perfect. If there had been problems with his first attempt at sparking a pandemic, the location of the initial outbreak had not been one of them. Furthermore, it was now 2020! In 2002, the nation had been just on the cusp of opening itself up to “commerce,” “free trade,” and other alleged harbingers of democracy. Now, 18 years later, the cheap American-designed goods were still being trucked out of the factories near the market, but the internet was censored, and dissidents were quickly and efficiently purged whenever necessary and without warning. All this extra security had been adopted because of a very foolish resolution that had been made by the leaders of the People’s Republic. 

“You remember what we call the 19th and 20th centuries in the history textbooks you had as a child?” a prominent member of the Chinese Communist Party had asked his daughter a hundred miles away. She didn’t answer, since she correctly assumed her father was asking a rhetorical question. The old politburo member continued. “We call them ‘The Centuries of Humiliation!’ The 1800s were Europe’s century. They flooded our country with drugs and cheap frivolities. They sent their missionaries to strip us of our culture. All of it, Humiliation! Then in the 1900s we wrestled power away from the old empire and immediately were crushed by the Japanese, on a global stage, then watched as the Americans swooped in to dry the tears of the very people who had fought against them, who killed our fathers and raped our mothers, while we starved. The Soviets acted friendly, but they too were determined to keep us weak. All of it, every decade, humiliation! Now the tables have turned Europe is irrelevant, Russia is weak and despised, and the Americans are fighting amongst themselves. It is the 21st Century! OUR century! We will never be humiliated again!”[6]

The old meat vendor had not been present for this specific exchange, but he was keenly aware of the similar sentiments held by other members of the Party, and the thought of their resolve to “never be humiliated again” made him smile. 

“Never be humiliated again.”  _ Life _ is humiliating, he’d thought to himself. The Almighty Herself made it so. It’s part of the point. Do humans think that they come out of the womb as weak, vulnerable little larvae and enter the grave as tottering geriatrics because they are strong? Like the stories of the bats being sold in the western market, Pestilence gazed upon such hubris and laughed. Preposterous!

An old woman had approached the stall of the vendor. She was, as old women went, quite pretty, with earnest dark eyes, snow-white hair, and a bright, wide smile. Her name was 淑, which meant “virtuous” or “charming.” She was a beautiful singer, and an excellent cook. She’d survived the invasion of the Japanese, the Cultural Revolution, a whole string of famines and political purges. Now she was 85, and the proud grandmother of a healthy young boy. 

“Oh!” She murmured, eyeing the pangolins. “I thought they’d outlawed the selling of these. I haven’t had them in years. How much are they?” 

The vendor named his price, and the money was exchanged. One of the scaly little pangolin corpses was deposited in a plastic bag, and taken away by the old woman as she retreated into the crowd. That evening she would grind up its scales to use as a medicine, and cook the meat for herself. The cooking of the meat killed off most of the virus, but alas, her mortar and pestle had no power to disinfect anything. She wiped her hand on her apron once she was done, and then stifled a yawn. Then she went to bed. 

Two weeks later, in November, the old vendor saw her in Wuhan Hospital. Her bright eyes were even brighter than they had been, too bright. They were completely glazed over with tears of pain and exhaustion. Her lungs were inflamed, her brow was hot, she felt as though she couldn’t catch her breath, and her right side had been paralyzed by a series of strokes. Occasionally, she would whisper the name of her grandson, or her daughter, or her mother. She wondered which of them she would end up seeing again.

She was one of many patients in the hospital that day. Pneumonia, the doctors had whispered to each other. The vendor smiled. Pneumonia. Coming up with a name for the little bundles of RNA that swarmed within the old woman’s lungs would take time and patience. When he was by himself, and not wandering through hospital wards disguised as a doctor, a maintenance man, or even a patient himself, he would ponder what the name of the virus would be. He couldn’t name it himself. 

_ It is yours, _ he wanted to say to every mortal who crossed his path.  _ Yours to incubate, yours to feed, yours to host. It is your job. You must call it by name for you have summoned it here yourselves, and it is yours. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Huanan Seafood Wholesale Market https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Huanan_Seafood_Wholesale_Market  
> [2] Ye Wei/Chinese Bushmeat https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ye_wei  
> [3] The Bat Vector https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2DsVhaXx8_I  
> [4] The Pangolin Vector https://www.cell.com/current-biology/pdfExtended/S0960-9822(20)30360-2  
> [5] SARS Outbreak https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2002%E2%80%932004_SARS_outbreak  
> [6] This conversation is based on an actual exchange that was recounted to me by a friend who is briefly mentioned as "the daughter" in this story.  
> *Sigh* Also yes, bats are occasionally sold as "bushmeat" in China, but I couldn't find any evidence that they were a direct vector for humans who were exposed to the disease in the Huanan Market. They aren't even listed as being sold there. I'm not an expert on epidemiology, or Chinese cuisine, but either way, no bats were butchered and sold by Pestilence in the making of this fic...as far as I know. He seems like a busy guy, so maybe I'm wrong.


	2. An Unlikely Source

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale hears something on the radio that shakes him up a bit, and seeks reassurance from an unlikely source.  
> Takes place in February of 2020.

Aziraphale nervously jiggled his leg as he chewed his nails to the quick. Drawn in front of him on the floor of the bookshop, was a summoning circle. 

“This is a terrible idea,” he muttered to himself. “Terrible, terrible, terrible...dear me.”

He’d spent the last two hours wracking his brain for an alternative to what he was about to do, desperately poring through every page of John Dee’s writings, working himself into a frenzy trying to find a way, any way, that he could avoid using the circle he’d drawn on the floorboards, only to come up empty. 

“Right,” he sighed. “Best to get on with it.” He stepped forward, materializing a small matchbook out of thin air to light the candles surrounding the crudely drawn symbol. 

“Perhaps I should call Crowley again,” he murmured to himself. 

No. That wouldn’t do. The demon had been curiously silent for the last two weeks. Any time Aziraphale tried to call his landline (the demon, like the angel, did not own a cellphone), he’d always been sent to voicemail. He’d tried very, very hard not to feel hurt by the demon’s silence. After all, it couldn’t have been personal. Crowley would have told Aziraphale if he were cross with him, wouldn’t he? It had been about a year since the world hadn’t ended, and things had been going so splendidly. 

Perhaps it was the letter, the angel thought to himself. That bloody letter, sent from Anathema and Newt, who were somewhere in America on their honeymoon. Tucked into the envelope had been a note from Anathema. The note itself had been filled with generic niceties and well wishes, which Aziraphale had eagerly shown to Crowley the next time they had dinner together. However, Crowley’s serpentine eyes had immediately narrowed as they darted to the bottom of the page, where a short postscript had been written in pencil.

_ A guest will arrive late for the end of the world, and ring in the new year in the city that never sleeps. _

The demon had then cursed under his breath, muttered an apology to Aziraphale, and left the Ritz without even taking his coat. Of all the strange things that had happened that evening, it was this that perplexed Aziraphale the most. Crowley never, ever went anywhere in the winter without his coat. 

Does cold weather impact the mental faculties of snakes? Aziraphale thought to himself. No, this can’t have been madness. Crowley may have been evil, somewhat, but he certainly wasn’t mad. Something else had gone wrong. Aziraphale had scanned the postscript of the note over and over again, trying and failing to make sense of it. It hadn’t been until the second week of January, when he’d been sorting through his books and listening to the radio, that he’d heard something that knocked the beautifully illuminated book of hours from Siena that he’d kept since the 1380s right out of his hands. 

“We have reports this evening of the first death from a new type of coronavirus in the Chinese city of Wuhan, as the government braces for the Lunar New Year travel boom…Possible cases of the same illness have emerged in Hong Kong and South Korea…” the radio droned.[1]

Crowley had immediately sprinted up the bookshop stairs to the little attic room where he stored a large, bulky Macintosh computer that he’d purchased in the early 2000s. 

“You know they’ve made more of these since 2004, you could get one of those,” Crowley had slurred upon seeing the thing for the first time in 2015. The angel and demon had been drinking rather heavily, and had gotten into a debate over whether a photo of a dress on Crowley’s phone was blue or yellow. 

Aziraphale had let out an agonized scream and thrown his arms around the machine, “T-this one works perfectly f-fine!”

“S’a machine, Angel,” Crowley slurred. “It’s not a p—hic—puppy. It won’ be hurt if you replace it.”

“But Crowley!” Aziraphale pleaded, “It’s such a fantastic thing. Remember how big they used to have to make these?”

“Yesss, and you—” Here Crowley had let out a high cackle before doubling over with laughter. “Y-you bought one when they managed to get them down to k-kitchen ssssink ssssize. They’re so much smaller now.”

In the end, Aziraphale had won the argument by threatening to drunkenly miracle himself and the computer to Alpha Centauri if Crowley wouldn’t leave the thing alone. Even having lost the argument, Crowley still sometimes threatened to break into the angels’ house to replace the machine with a sleek new Macbook Air, or better yet a Windows computer, which the demon preferred. 

“Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured to himself as he waited for the gargantuan machine to reboot. This always ended up taking a while. Eventually, the screen lit up. “There we are, dear,” the angel murmured, patting the machine gently on the side. He quickly opened up Internet Explorer and navigated to ask.com. He then typed  _ Would you happen to have heard of a new virus from China that has spread to Hong Kong and South Korea? Thank you _ . Crowley had told him multiple times that saying “thank you” to the search engine wasn’t necessary, but he did it anyway. After all, saying thank you to other people wasn’t necessary either, it was simply polite and the right thing to do. 

An article in the associated press immediately came up.[2] Through reading it, Aziraphale learned that the disease had come from the city of Wuhan. 

“Oh dear, it really is from China, the poor dears,” he murmured. “And now Hong Kong too, and they weren’t having a very nice year to begin with already. I do wonder what that fellow in North Korea is going to do—or is it his son? They’re so hard to keep track of!”

Aziraphale had never been good at keeping up with world politics, that was Crowley’s department. 

He scanned the rest of the article ten times before navigating to various other news sources. He miracled his way through the firewall of the New York Times (nothing), the Wall Street Journal, and the persistently-vulgar New York Post, but there was nary a piece of news about any sort of virus to be found. 

“Naught but silence from the city that never sleeps,” the angel murmured to himself in relief. He then exited out of internet explorer and shut down the machine. It had been a false alarm, he decided. Perhaps he should try reading some Austen to settle his nerves. 

Now, one month later, he wasn’t nearly as reassured that all was well. More reports about cases of the illness had emerged from all over the globe. It wasn’t in America yet, reportedly. The President insisted that the situation was under control with exactly the amount of bravado that the angel would have expected. Rather than calm his nerves, the assurances of the former real estate mogul only made Aziraphale more frightened. It was this that had led him here, to the spell circle that was crudely scratched into his floor. Having lit all the candles, Aziraphale slid his spectacles onto his nose and opened up an old, worn, tome. He spoke the invocation illuminated within its pages, and watched in apprehension as a ray of light fell down from the ceiling of the bookshop. 

A figure made entirely of brightness had appeared in the center of the circle, and it did  _ not _ look happy. 

“Hullo Gabriel,” Aziraphale squeaked, his voice cracking. 

Gabriel wrinkled his nose in disgust. “‘ _ Hullo’ _ traitor,” he sneered. “What have you done now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Couldn't find any radio broadcasts from January about COVID-19, or at least I couldn't find the transcripts of any. So I basically stole a few lines of this AP article, which I'm going to use in the story again, and which will has been cited below.  
> [2] The article in question https://apnews.com/c0e87e089a89fa5579e1c63acded7d46


	3. Angels in the Hands of a Silent God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel is NOT the right person to go to for reassurance. -1/10, do not recommend.  
> CW: Uh...physical and emotional abuse by a divine celestial being.

15 minutes after being unceremoniously summoned to the bookshop by the younger principality, Gabriel found himself in a comfy chair, holding a cup of hot cocoa which had been offered to him by a very guilty looking Aziraphale. Aziraphale had hoped that the cocoa and the chair would soften the heart (heart? Does that work?) of the more senior celestial being, but it was becoming increasingly clear that Gabriel found the whole thing insulting. 

“What the hell is it?” Gabriel snapped, tossing the cocoa to the side. 

“S-sorry. I j-just wanted to a-ask if y-you all kn-know anything ab-b-bout it.” the principality stammered.

“Ab-b-bout what, Aziraphale?” the celestial messenger replied mockingly. 

Aziraphale winced as he felt all the blood in his vessel rush to his face. This was awful. Even worse than he’d anticipated, but he had to keep going. “T-this v-virus. T-the one that’s c-coming from Wuhan in China. T-they’re c-calling it a c-c—” his voice broke off as Gabriel’s eyes flashed in recognition and his sneer widened.

“Go on then, spit it out. C-c-c—”

“Coronavirus,” Aziraphale huffed, picking up a stack of annotated papers from his sofa. “I’ve read all about it.”

“Have you now?” 

“It’s spreading everywhere—”

“Aren’t the humans saying it’ll just be like the flu?” Gabriel asked snidely. 

Aziraphale pressed his lips together. “I d-don’t believe them,” he said firmly. 

“You d-don’t believe them?” 

“N-not for a minute.”

Gabriel let out a low laugh. “You really have gone native, have you?” 

Aziraphale felt his color deepen. “If this is about the cocoa—”

“It’s not,” the Celestial messenger responded grimly. “But that’s more human than anything, to hear the people who hold your life in their hands lie to you, to know they are lying, and to be unable to do anything about it. Really, Aziraphale, I thought you’d be pleased.”

“I d-don’t care what happens to me,” Aziraphale snapped. “But them? They’ll be the ones who suffer—What would She say?” 

A white hot flash suddenly threw the Principality’s vessel to the other side of the room, pinning him to the wall by his throat. Gabriel’s wings were out, and the air was filled with the smell of ozone. 

“DO. NOT. SPEAK. OF. HER.” he boomed. 

Aziraphale quietly miracled some air into his lungs so he could speak. “W-why? She h-hasn’t rej-jected m-me,” he gasped. This was true. His wings were still white, pristine, perfect, unblemished. He checked them every day. 

The heat radiating from Gabriel’s hand suddenly intensified, and Aziraphale was thrown back onto the floor. He gingerly got up, dusted himself off, and stood to face gabriel once again. The wings of the celestial messenger were gone, but his eyes still burned white hot with rage. 

“Y-you haven’t answered my question,” Aziraphale called out. “T-this virus, it’s not normal. Something’s not right. Isn’t She going to do anything about it?”

“Very bold of you to ask favors from Her,” Gabriel scoffed. 

“Well, ‘ask and you shall receive,’” the Principality quipped defiantly. 

“That sounds like entitlement,” Gabriel said with a smile.

“I’d rather call it faith.” 

“She’s not a dog you can ask to do tricks whenever you want Her to.”

“I’m asking Her for mercy, when has She ever said no to that—?”

“You’re asking me,” Gabriel interrupted. “You, puny little traitor, are asking ME. She is not here.” 

Aziraphale immediately felt his heart fall into his stomach. 

“ _Eloi eloi, lema sabachthani?_ ”[1] Gabriel sneered. 

“Are you mocking Her?” the principality hissed.

“I’m mocking you,” the messenger answered, miracleing away what remained of the spell circle. “I cannot give you what you want, Aziraphale. It’s not mine to give you in the first place. We had a rule book once, remember? You’re the one who destroyed it when it didn’t suit you. You can’t just come to me to ask for a new one.”

Aziraphale was staring blankly at the floor. He felt as though a giant void had opened up beneath him. His hands shook, and he could feel tears brimming in his eyes. 

Gabriel let out another chuckle. “I take back what I said earlier.”

“W-what?” Aziraphale stammered. 

“To find yourself in the hands of dishonest leaders, without the power to change anything, that’s not the most human thing one can do.”

Aziraphale had a feeling that whatever the messenger said next would hit him like a punch in the stomach. He braced himself accordingly. 

“The most human thing one can do, is stand before a silent Deity, alone, and powerless. That is so human Aziraphale,” here Gabriel’s smile widened, “think of it as my gift to you. I hope you enjoy it.” 

Thunder boomed outside, and in a quick flash of light, the messenger was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] These are among the last recorded words of Jesus before he died on the cross. They translate to "My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?" Also Gabriel is a massive dick.


	4. Turning and turning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale receives an unexpected message.

Aziraphale walked away from his encounter with Gabriel in such shock, he hardly noticed the painful twinge in his side until the next morning. After gingerly attempting to massage it, he realized one of the ribs of his vessel had been broken. Furthermore, his collar was singed, and the skin around his neck was red and raw. He could heal these injuries himself, of course, but whenever he thought to do so he found he couldn’t quite summon the energy. He couldn’t summon the energy to do anything, actually, whether it was healing himself, or reading, or taking a walk. All he really wanted to do was stare at the ceiling and think of nothing. 

The next month passed in a grey blur. Aziraphale tried to go about his daily business working in the shop, cooking his own meals, and watching the rest of the world turn. The day after Gabriel’s visit, the first case of the virus was diagnosed in London,[1] and yet people still went about their daily business: riding the tube, going to Harrods, brushing shoulders with strangers, running their fingers along fences, giving hugs, kisses, and all sorts of physical greetings. All of it made Aziraphale feel physically ill. He was afraid to go to the hospital to see what was happening to the newly diagnosed patient. He knew he was being ridiculous. He’d lived through multiple plagues, he’d even gone to the Americas during the smallpox pandemic of 1520. However all of those experiences had haunted him for centuries after they’d passed. Memories of glassy eyes, sore-covered faces, burning fevers, and the helpless confusion of the patient’s loved ones, lurked in the recesses of his mind like old nightmares, not that Aziraphale had ever had a nightmare before. He’d never been partial to sleep, and his currently elevated levels of anxiety put him off the activity altogether. Sleep Indeed! Who on earth could be expected to sleep in times like these? 

Crowley could, most likely, the angel thought to himself in frustration one evening in March. Where was that demon anyways? 

Suddenly, as if in answer to the question, Aziraphale heard the sound of a thump at the bookshop’s entrance. When the angel made it to the foyer of the bookshop, he saw that a thick envelope had been slipped beneath the door. His name was written on the front in a sloppy, scrawling hand. There was no return address. 

The Principality wrapped the package in a clean tea-towel and brought it to his study. Once there, he produced a spray bottle of 70% isopropyl alcohol from his desk.[2] The pungent-smelling antiseptic made Aziraphale’s eyes water, and caused the ink on the front of the package to run. As soon as the angel was confident that the antiseptic had been allowed to do its work, he cautiously opened the package with shaking hands. 

Inside was a note scratched on a piece of looseleaf, a plane ticket, and a curious green mask. The angel quickly sat down to examine the note. 

_ Angel, _

_ Sorry for the radio silence on my part. Need you to come to New York. The plane ticket stapled to this note is for you. It leaves Heathrow at 8, but be sure to get there at least an hour early. Do not bring any liquids. I’ll meet you at the gate in JFK. Avoid performing any miracles on your way here. Don’t want upstairs to notice anything. Wash your hands often, and scrub them for 20 seconds each time you do (sing the song “happy birthday” twice). Don’t touch your face, and wear gloves if you’ve got them.  _

_ Happy New Year, _

_ Crowley _

_ P.S. Put on the mask before you go outside and don’t take it off under any circumstances. Don’t worry if you can’t smell anything while wearing it, that means it's working.  _

Aziraphale’s eyes shifted to the plane ticket stapled to the note. It suddenly occurred to him that he’d never ridden in an aeroplane before. Admittedly, it was difficult to be excited about the prospect under these circumstances. 

“How can they be allowing people to travel at a time like this?” the angel muttered in anger. It was madness. Utter madness!

The green-colored mask was still sitting on the desk. Something appeared to be printed on the front. 

_ 3M 1860 _

_ NIOSH N95 LOT:B17249 _

_ TC-84A-0006 _

_ HEALTHCARE PARTICULATE RESPIRATOR AND SURGICAL MASK _

_ For proper respirator use wearer must be trained and comply with the instructions on the box. For assistance, see your supervisor or call 3M at 1-800-229-3957  _ [3]

Aziraphale’s heart immediately fell into his stomach. There was no box or instructions with the mask, aside from Crowley’s warning that it would keep him from smelling anything if used properly. 

“I do hope the humans haven’t decided that now, of all times, is when they should re-examine the miasma theory,” the angel sighed anxiously before checking his pocket watch.[4] It was 2 AM. His plane was leaving from Heathrow at 8. “I suppose I ought to pack,” Aziraphale murmured. “But how long am I to be there?”

In the end, the Principality decided to pack a week’s worth of clothes, a collection of poems by William B. Yeats, A transcript of the Importance of Being Earnest, toiletries, and the bottle of rubbing alcohol. He drank some tea, made himself a sandwich, put on the mask, and left the bookshop at 5 AM, locking the door behind him. In the front window, he left the usual CLOSED sign with a small addendum carefully written at the bottom:

_ In light of recent events, we at AZ Fell’s Bookshop have decided to close our doors until further notice for the health and safety of our customers. Please be sure to wash or sanitize your hands regularly and keep them away from your face.  _

_ Be Well! _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] https://www.lbc.co.uk/news/uk/coronavirus-london-confirmed-uk/  
> [2] Any alcohol solution used to disinfect surfaces contaminated with COVID-19 must be 60% or more Isopropyl alcohol.   
> [3] I’ve worn N95 masks before, and I even had some in my house at the beginning of the pandemic. But now they’ve all been given to the hospital, so I found this image online to use as a reference. https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0030/2520/7340/products/N95_Mask_Main_1024x1024@2x.jpg?v=1527724427  
> [4] Miasma theory is an obsolete medical theory holding that disease is caused by “bad air” or nasty smells. It was debunked in the latter half of the 1800s by John “Insert Game of Thrones Joke Here” Snow and Louis Pasteur.


	5. In the Widening Gyre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale boards a flight to New York, and an elderly cabbie has a fortuitous, if disturbing, encounter with everyone's favorite demon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the lovely comments <3 This may be my last post for a bit because I have to finish some finals for school. I'll try to post again at some point this week though.

The mask, Aziraphale decided, had to have been initially created to act, not as a piece of protective equipment, but as some sort of torture device. The bands of the mask wrapped tightly around his head, crushing his ears, and making his temples ache. The chemicals that had been used to treat the front made the eyes of his vessel water.[1]

“And I’m going to be wearing this thing for weeks!” Aziraphale grumbled. “Or however long aeroplanes take to fly across the Atlantic.” 

Getting into the airport and onto the plane was an ordeal unto itself. Going through security without using miracles, or a Precheck pass, was a nightmare. 

“Who on earth would hide a weapon in their shoes?!” Aziraphale demanded of a surly looking security agent. 

He’d just made it to the other side of the checkpoint, when an alarm went off. He turned in horror to see one of the security agents unzipping his suitcase and rifling about inside!

“No!” he yelped, sprinting back to the checkpoint. “M-my suitcase—”

The agent scowled and held up the bottle of rubbing alcohol. “Sorry mate, no liquids that ain’t travel size. You can get some hand sanitizer in the magazine shop.”

The angel almost burst into tears as another agent carried the bottle away and the first agent returned the suitcase to Aziraphale.

“Well then, on you get! Safe travels and all.” 

Aziraphale left the terminal in something of a state of shock. One of a trio of women leaving the checkpoint noticed the angel staring blankly back at the ground, and hurried up to his side, brushing off the objections of her companions. She was modestly dressed, with bright eyes, and a wide smile. 

“Hello sir, are you lost?” she asked gently. Her voice had a slight lilt to it, one that Aziraphale couldn’t quite place.

“Mary!” the smallest of the three women, who’s voice had a similar lilt, had run up beside the bright-eyed woman, closely accompanied by the third woman, who was tall, thin, and earnest looking. “You can’t just come up to strangers in the airport—”

“Lena, he needs help!”

Aziraphale, who hadn’t quite noticed the exchange, stared at the young women with a look of utter devastation on his face. “They took my disinfectant,” he sighed.

The expression of the woman named Mary immediately softened. “Oh dear! I’m sorry. What gate are you going to?”

“Gate?!” the angel gasped in surprise. Crowley’s note hadn’t said anything about a gate. “I need to find a plane to New York!”

“It should be on your boarding pass—”

“Boarding pass?!” Aziraphale squeaked.

The petit woman, who Mary had called Lena, let out a snort. “Have you not been on a plane before?”

“Lena!”

“What? I’m asking!”

Aziraphale shook his head. 

“Oh,” the tallest of the three women sighed. “Well then your gate should be listed on your ticket. Are you taking the 8:00 AM to JFK?”

The angel quickly produced the ticket from his pocket and showed it to three women. 

“Why haven’t you got it on your phone?” Lena murmured, prompting a hiss from Mary. The tallest of the woman was more pensive, staring at the ticket over her glasses.

“Oh, we’re going the same way.”

Aziraphale almost cried in relief. “We are?”

“I don’t know why you’d want to visit New York now, of all times,” Lena grumbled. 

“I’m Joanna,” the tallest of the woman said gently. “This is Mary, and Lena. We’re students.”[2]

“Oh! Um—Azira—I mean—Ezra. Ezra Fell.” the angel replied. He did not offer her his hand, luckily she didn’t seem to mind. 

“Let’s head to the gate, have you had breakfast?” Lena asked.

Aziraphale nodded grimly. For the first time in his 6000 years on earth, food was the last thing the angel wanted. “But my disinfectant—the man at the checkpoint—he said something about a shop where I’d be able to buy more...hand sanitizer?”

Mary’s face brightened. “Oh yes! We can get some on our way there. Here—” She beckoned the angel to follow her.

The three women walked through the airport with the speed, purpose, and assurance of those who have been in airports numerous times. Aziraphale couldn’t help but be impressed. 

The “gate” Joanna had mentioned was really an area surrounding a large sliding door, filled with chairs. The chairs were occupied by crowds of what the angel guessed were passengers. Joanna picked out four chairs for them to sit in. Aziraphale hadn’t been planning on making conversation, but Mary, who was the most talkative of the three, pulled him into one anyway. 

She and Lena were from Kenya, she explained. Joanna was from Rwanda. They were all students at a college in Pennsylvania who had been taking their semester abroad in London.

“None of us were expecting to be called back,” Mary sighed, a little sadly. 

“At least we’ll be back in the States,” Lena assured her. 

“Don’t get too excited, we’re not back yet,” Joanna cautioned her. “I don’t think I’ll be able to relax until you two are out west and I’m in Philadelphia.”

“We’ll be fine. God is in control,” Mary said with a kind of cheerful dismissiveness. 

“Where are you going?” Aziraphale inquired politely. “Why aren’t you going back to your countries?” 

“My mum’s worried if I go home now, I’ll never be let into America again,” Lena answered dryly. “I agree with her. We know what the American president thinks of us.”

“Oh Lena, don’t be bitter,” Mary pleaded.

Aziraphale looked at the smallest of the three women in amazement. “Don’t you miss it? your home, I mean.”

At this, Lena let out a laugh. “I’ve been in boarding school since I was six. It’s not like I’ve never been away before.”

“I do miss my parents,” Mary said a little apprehensively. “But I’m going to Minnesota to stay with my cousins. I thought I wouldn’t see them again until this summer!”

Aziraphale smiled weakly behind his mask. He got the sense that Mary was the sort of person who tried to find the bright side of every situation, no matter how dire. Crowley would have been utterly appalled by it, but personally, the angel couldn’t help but find it reassuring. 

“What about you Mr. Fell? Where are you headed?” Joanna inquired.

“Oh, Just visiting,” the angel paused as he carefully considered his answer. “I received a message from a friend who needs my help with something…”

Lena raised an eyebrow. “Who told you to wear that mask?” 

“My friend sent it to me.”

“Is your friend a physician?” Joanna asked eagerly.

Aziraphale’s mouth immediately went dry. “I d-don’t—Um—” His voice broke off as he wracked his brain for a suitable response. “He’s not a physician but he’s very… knowledgeable about these things.”

“Do you think we should’ve worn masks?” Joanna wondered.

“Where would we have gotten them? Nobody told us,” Lena snapped impatiently. 

Aziraphale could see that the young women were feeling anxious, and immediately felt a pang of guilt. “I’m sure you’ll all be fine. There’s only been a few cases in London so far, and I can’t imagine why they’d let anyone sick on the plane at a time like this. I’m sure my friend was just being overly cautious.”

None of the women looked particularly reassured by this, but before any of them could say anything else, an announcement came over the loudspeaker. 

“NOW BOARDING VIRGIN ATLANTIC FLIGHT 3 TO JFK AIRPORT…”

The women were each called away, one by one, into different boarding groups. Mary and Aziraphale, by what the angel could only assume had been some stroke of divine luck, discovered they were to be seated next to each other. The Principality also discovered that the flight across the Atlantic would only take five hours.

“Oh Mr. Fell, you poor man, how long did you think it would take?” Mary laughed. 

Indeed, once the two had boarded the plane, Aziraphale immediately recognized the foolishness of his assumption. The aeroplane was really nothing more than a narrow metal cylinder with wings on it. It would’ve been perfectly impossible for any mortal to survive comfortably in such a space without the ability to enact miracles. 

He and Mary settled into their seats and buckled their seatbelts. Mary had asked Aziraphale if he’d prefer to sit away from the window so as to calm his nerves, but the angel, who had  _ flown _ before even if it hadn’t been in an aeroplane, politely declined. 

“You’re a braver person than me,” Mary had murmured. “I’d die of fright if I had to sit by the window while flying for the first time.” 

Once the two travellers had settled into their seats, Aziraphale spent the time before takeoff obsessively reading the safety manual cover to cover. “I know Crowley doesn’t want me using any miracles,” the angel thought to himself. “But if something happens I’m afraid I won’t have a choice. I hope he understands.” The principality, in truth, was the absolute model of a good aeroplane passenger. He was mindful of his own space, thanked each of the stewardesses profusely for their safety demonstration, and neither drank to excess nor removed his shoes to rest them on the seat in front of him. 

However, when the plane finally lurched forward and rolled onto the runway, Aziraphale nearly fell out of his seat in fright. The takeoff that followed was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard an engine so loud, and it was very strange watching the earth fall away from him in the company of another mortal. 

“Isn’t it pretty?” Mary whispered, as the whole of England spread out before them like a carpet. 

Aziraphale nodded. The sun was rising, and the rest of London was just getting up. The angel thought of his bookshop, the restaurant at the Ritz, the ducks in Saint James’ Park, and immediately felt a deep void open up within his soul. 

“Mr. Fell? Are you alright?” 

Aziraphale glanced back up, smiling a little sadly behind his mask. “Yes dear, never better.” 

* * *

In his 20 years driving a cab in New York, Ismail Kama had never seen anything like it. A sleek, black car, like something out of an old Hollywood movie, was driving right in front of him next to the airport. He took out his cracked iPhone 4 to snap a picture, when the driver of the car, a tall red-haired man in a leather suit, turned towards Kama’s cab, and lowered his sunglasses. 

What Kama saw next, almost made his heart stop beating. The man’s eyes looked completely wrong, and not human at all. They were yellow, with dark slits for pupils, like a serpent’s. The two drivers stared at each other for about half a minute, before Iqbal heard a low hissing voice in his head. 

_ Go Home, Issssmail _

Kama’s heart leapt into his throat. The voice spoke in the Cangin language still used by Kama’s parents and grandparents, back in Dakar. He’d never met any speakers of it in New York before. Even his wife only spoke French and Wolof.

_ Go Home.  _

“But the school fees—” Kama said aloud. Kama didn’t have any children, and so he and his wife, Aisha, had taken it upon themselves to pool any extra money they made to pay for the education of their nieces and nephews back in Senegal. Kama’s eldest niece, Awa, had ambitions to become a physicist.

“ _ Bugger the ssssschool fees,”  _ the voice hissed, rather awkwardly, for there was no word for “bugger” in the Cangin language. _ “Check your glove box.” _

Kama gingerly glanced down at the glove compartment, and almost shouted in surprise. The compartment was full of crisp, 20, 50, and 100 dollar bills. The cab driver glanced back at the car in front of him, but the driver had pulled his head back inside. Kama rolled down his window.

“Thank you,” he shouted.

_ “SSSSSSSssshut up!”  _ the voice spat.  _ “Go home. Wasssshhh your handsss. Tell your wife to do the ssssame. Sssssspray your bloody cab with disssssinfectant, and do not go back to work tomorrow.” _

With that, the vintage car sped off, leaving Kama behind. The elderly cab driver cast one last glance at his glove box, turned off his lights, and recklessly drove back to the Bronx where he lived. Once he was home, he sprayed the inside of his cab with a solution of clorox bleach and water, and washed his hands as thoroughly as he could. Neither he nor his wife went to work the next morning, and little Awa woke up a week later to find a book on Jack Parsons’ experiments with rockets under her pillow.[3]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] I’ve had the dubious pleasure of wearing an N-95 mask on a long airplane flight. Trust me, it’s not pleasant. In the past few weeks many physicians in NYC have suffered from allergic reactions to the chemicals the masks are treated with. The reaction isn’t life threatening, but it is uncomfortable, and there really isn’t anything you can do about it.  
> [2] Mary, Lena and Johanna are based on actual classmates of mine, who happen to be the three most well-travelled people I know.   
> [3] Crowley WOULD get an aspiring physicist a book on Jack Parsons. Find out why here. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jack_Parsons_(rocket_engineer)


	6. The Falcon Cannot Hear the Falconer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale makes a troubling discovery en route to New York.  
> CW: Detailed description of COVID symptoms, and Denver International Airport mention.

Crowley normally loved airports. He’d had a hand in designing many over the course of the last century. He’d even received a commendation from downstairs upon the completion of the Denver Airport in 1995. But JFK’s Terminal 4 was something else. Crowley had never touched the designs for the $1.4 billion dollar monstrosity.[1] Even he couldn’t have designed something this malevolently banal. There were no sculptures of demonic horses, no unsettling murals decorated with scenes out of a bad science fiction movie,[2] nor was the building undergoing a never-ending renovation.[3] The food, Crowley had realized in horror, was  _ edible,  _ and there were no loose pigeons hanging about the baggage claim. Yes, the people passing through it were sleep-deprived, anxious, grumpy, and fairly disheveled looking by the time they reached their gates, but no more so than they might have been after passing through Chicago O’Hare, LAX, or Charlotte International. 

_ Lazy, _ the demon had thought to himself after the terminal’s unveiling in the early 2000s. So much wasted potential. 

However, 19 years later, in the Year of Our Lord 2020, Crowley couldn’t have been more grateful for the terminal’s various shortcomings. He’d managed to slip inside the airport with the help of a few demonic tricks. Everything had gone fairly smoothly,  _ thank fucking Satan _ . Now the demon was sitting outside of the customs checkpoint, his mask fastened tightly around his face, waiting for the angel,  _ his _ angel, to putter through the gate. He checked his watch. The plane wasn’t supposed to touch down for another two hours. Hissing curses under his breath, the demon leaned up against the wall to wait, and wait, and wait.

* * *

Three hours after Virgin Atlantic Flight 3 had taken off from Heathrow airport, the angel sitting in seat 17F woke with a start. 

“Goodness, what’s gotten into me?” Aziraphale muttered under his mask. He never slept. He didn’t need to, and he’d never particularly enjoyed it the way his demonic counterpart had. Who slept on planes anyway?!

The angel cautiously lifted the shutter of his window. He couldn’t quite tell what time it was. His own internal circadian rhythm told him it was just before noon, which made the fact that he, Aziraphale, had been  _ napping  _ all the more inconceivable. Furthermore, he was still wearing that bloody mask. Any feeling in his ears he’d had upon boarding the plane was now utterly gone, and his eyes were still damp from the chemicals. 

“Mr. Fell? Are you quite alright?” 

The angel nearly jumped out of his seat, only to recognize the voice as belonging to Mary. 

“Ah! Yes dear, I’m quite alright. Did I miss anything?”

Mary shook her head. “Not really. They turned the seatbelt sign off a while ago.”

“Seatbelt sign?” Aziraphale murmured in wonder. 

“The little sign up there,” at this, the young woman pointed at one of the glyphs on the ceiling above the angel’s seat. “When it's not glowing it means we can move around the plane.”

“Ah,” the angel sighed. He was about to ask the girl why on earth anyone would want to walk about the plane when he felt an uncomfortable tingling deep within his stomach. 

_ Oh, _ he thought. That was why. Ordinarily, Aziraphale would have simply wished the contents of his bladder out of existence. He hardly ever relieved himself the “natural” way. It was so degrading and messy, and it smelled awful! But Crowley had warned him not to use miracles in the letter. 

“That bloody serpent,” the angel hissed under his breath, before turning to Mary with a rather forced smile of politeness. “My dear, I’m so sorry to ask this, but would you mind terribly if I got up to—”

“—Use the restroom? Of course not!” Mary replied cheerfully. 

Aziraphale immediately felt his cheeks grow warm beneath his mask. He’d been going to say “stretch my legs.” Were all young women nowadays so nonchalant about human bodily functions? Anathema had never talked of such things so casually.  _ I suppose it’s a good thing in the long run _ , the principality thought to himself. 

Mary politely roused the rather chubby older woman sitting in Seat 17D, before dutifully rising from her own seat. Aziraphale felt horribly guilty about the whole thing.  _ Perhaps I ought to have taken the aisle seat after all _ . 

Soon the angel was stumbling down the aisle towards what Mary had said would be the water closet. However upon arriving, another person immediately went in before him. 

“Oh fiddle,” the angel cursed. 

“There’s another restroom at the other end of the plane,” A steward sighed complacently. “You can wait for him to finish if you want.”

Aziraphale was sure that if he waited any longer...well...he didn’t know what would happen. He’d never been in this position before. But he was almost certain it wouldn’t be good. He thanked the stewardess, perhaps a bit tersely, and turned to walk in the opposite direction. 

The other restroom, thankfully, was unoccupied. It was also tiny. The lights were garish, and the toilet made an awful sucking sound that nearly frightened the angel to death. Tempted by the fact that he was in a separate space, and that no-one on the plane had seemed sick, Aziraphale briefly removed his mask and splashed some water on the bruised bridge of his nose. “Damn thing,” he muttered, as he cast a withering glance at the little green torture device. 

All complaints aside, upon washing his hands thoroughly and stepping out of the bathroom, the angel couldn’t help but feel satisfied with himself. He’d not been forced to micturate in such a manner in centuries, and Crowley had often accused the angel of not knowing how. 

“Foul fiend,” Aziraphale sighed, not a little nostalgically. 

Upon turning to make his way back to his seat, Aziraphale caught sight of Lena and Joanna, who had been placed a few rows away from each other. However something was wrong. Joanna’s hands were folded in her lap, her head was bowed, and it looked as though she was praying rather fervently. Lena simply looked frightened and grim. 

Aziraphale was about to approach them to ask if something was wrong, when a noise from further in the back of the plane made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. It was a cough. 

As an eons old celestial being, Aziraphale had heard many, many coughs during his lifetime. He’d heard loud coughs, soft coughs, wet coughs, dry coughs, acute coughs, chronic coughs, whooping coughs, and more. This cough in particular had come from a rather tired looking older man. He looked to be in his 40s. His forehead was beaded with sweat, and his eyes were slightly glazed. Every once in a while, he’d pause to double over with another of those terrible, rattling coughs. 

The woman sitting next to him was massaging his hand, and avoiding the frightened, accusatory gazes of the surrounding passengers. 

“Excuse me!” another passenger barked at a passing stewardess. “Who the hell let them on the plane?!” 

The stewardess was at a loss. “We didn’t receive any instructions as to what—”

“If I or my wife get sick because of him—I swear—You’ll never work on an airplane again, do you hear me?!”

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose in mild disgust. While he understood the frustration of the passenger, taking such anger out on the poor stewardess seemed utterly counterproductive. 

_ Besides, _ the angel thought,  _ perhaps it’s simply a cold. _

Silently making a note to apologize to Crowley once they were reunited, Aziraphale miraculously extended the tendrils of his angelic grace towards the sickly passenger, letting it be drawn into the man’s chest by another belabored inhalation. In doing this, the angel allowed his essense to seep into the man’s lungs where— “Oh…” Aziraphale breathed. Oh no.

The cells of the lungs were brimming with the frantic movement of the little strands of RNA. Most of them had been stripped of their cilia, the little hair-like structures the Almighty had placed there to clear the passages of mucus and debris.[4] The rest of the cells were angry, red, sore, and swollen like dying stars. Then there was the heat, the frantic incandescence of fever, of each cell literally trying to boil away the sickness. 

Aziraphale remembered his first time taking stock of human physiology, his wonder at how well engineered everything was. Now he watched as dying cells added to the debris in the man’s lungs, his heart sinking with each rattling cough.

Suddenly he remembered Lena, Joanna, and the other passengers, and cursed under his breath. The tendrils receded, and the angel opened his eyes. 

He carefully took note of the materials of the mask hanging from his face, the molecular structure of the nonwoven polypropylene fibers and even the blasted chemicals that had been making his eyes water all day.[5] He then reached into his pocket, and pulled a carbon copy of the mask into existence. 

_ I’m sorry, Crowley,  _ he thought. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] JFK Airport's Terminal 4 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_F._Kennedy_International_Airport#Terminal_4  
> [2] Denver airport might actually be Crowley’s favorite airport in the world for the aesthetics alone. Click here to see why. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Denver_International_Airport#Art  
> [3] Yes, I know they only started renovating Laguardia in 2015, but I’ll be damned if it doesn’t feel like its been longer than 5 fucking years https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/LaGuardia_Airport#Reconstruction_work  
> [4] COVID-19 Symptoms Breakdown https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OOJqHPfG7pA&t=232s  
> [5] N95 Mask Materials https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/N95_mask


	7. Things Fall Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley gets a nasty surprise while awaiting his angel's arrival.  
> CW: Blackmail/intimidation, mention of 9/11 and the buildup of the US Surveillance state that followed it. (Why yes, I am a political science major. How did you know haha?)

As Crowley whiled away the hours waiting for Aziraphale’s plane to land, a dark shadow of suspicion crept over him. Something in the air was different. It was as though a boundary had been crossed, a ley line disturbed, a great power roused. Suddenly a voice spoke.

“Morning, Traitor.” 

Crowley whipped around, only to see a figure standing—or lurking—in the shadows. His throat immediately went dry, and his yellow eyes narrowed. 

“The fuck are you doing here?”

It is a fact widely agreed upon by all citizens of the world, that of all the locations in New York City where one could lurk, Terminal 4 of the JFK Airport was probably the least suitable. For reasons beyond Crowley’s understanding, in the years since that awful incident in 2001, the US Government had grown quite eager to eradicate the practice of lurking in all settings. In tackling such an endeavor, airports, particularly this airport, had received special attention.

“It doesn’t make sense,” the demon had grumbled to Aziraphale in October of 2001.[1] “It’s the ‘land of the free,’ innit? Shouldn’t people be free to lurk wherever they like?” 

“It's only to keep people safe,” the angel replied with a sigh. “Think of it. All those poor people, and they haven’t even got the fires put out yet. They’re still digging bodies out of the rubble. You can’t blame them for feeling paranoid.”

“Not everyone who lurks is dangerous,” Crowley retorted sullenly. “Some people don’t even mean to do it. You know that houseless fellow on Savile Row? Perfectly harmless old chap. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. These people would probably want him arrested and interrogated for treason or something.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Oooh, you say it's silly now,” the demon laughed bitterly. “Just wait till I get arrested next time I go to New York.”

“My dear, of all the lurkers in the world, you are hardly the most innocent,” Aziraphale answered pointedly. 

“That's not the point,” Crowley hissed angrily.

“The Americans are ruled by a democracy, yes? That means their politicians have to answer to the people they represent,” the angel said firmly. “Imagine how furious people would be if the government used a national tragedy as an excuse to build a police state.”[2]

Imagine indeed, Crowley had thought at the time. 

Of course, in the years since that conversation, the demon’s worst fears had been fulfilled and exceeded. He took absolutely no joy in having won the argument, especially as he watched Aziraphale’s optimism fade with each new horrifying news story.[3]

However, it appeared that after 20 years into their War on Lurking, the American government had gotten a bit lazy. Either that, or the Duke of Hell, known as Hastur, truly was as good at lurking as everyone said he was. 

“Where’s your friend?” Crowley sneered. 

Hastur’s eyes flashed in anger. “You know very well where he is, you blessed bastard.”

The serpent barely flinched. “Oh yes. My condolences. Why’re you here then?”

At this, the Duke smiled. “Why funnily enough, I was about to ask where your accomplice was?”

Crowley’s heart immediately fell into his stomach. “Am I his keeper? Why would I know where he is?” He attempted a confident smile of his own beneath his mask. “Why would I tell you if I knew, for that matter?”

Hastur let out a laugh. “You’ll tell me because a few minutes ago, we received a call—”

“I thought you weren’t too keen on telephones,” the serpent murmured innocently. “Go on.”

“The call was from upstairs. They said that there had been a miracle performed on a flight from Heathrow to JFK. Had to have been around 15 minutes ago.”

_ Fuck, _ Crowley thought to himself. “What sort of miracle?” 

“300 of those,” the Duke gestured at the mask Crowley was wearing, “summoned into existence on a 787 Virgin Atlantic Jet[4] flying from London to New York.” There was a brief pause as Hastur pretended to check the clock on the wall. “Should be arriving here, in a few hours actually.”

Crowley pressed his lips together under his mask.

“If the Angel is using miracles recklessly, isn’t that their problem, and not ours?” 

“What are you two playing at, Crawly?” Hastur growled. 

“I’d like to plead the Fifth on that, Officer,” the serpent answered.[5]

Hastur’s face fell immediately into a look of confusion. “What’s that?” 

“The fifth amendment of the American constitution. I’m sure you could find a summary of it online if it’s too hard for you to read.” 

For a brief moment, Crowley wondered if Aziraphale’s plane would have to forgo landing in an airport, and settle for a massive airport-shaped crater instead.  _ Perhaps I should’ve bought him a ticket to Laguardia after all. They’d probably elect me mayor for it,  _ the demon thought to himself. Luckily, the Duke of hell managed to keep his composure, 

“You ought to watch yourself Crawly,” Hastur snarled. “You and your angel. There’s nothing either of you can do about this.”

“Oh stop beating around the bush,” the demon sighed in exasperation. “Are you saying that we—” he stopped to correct himself, there was no  _ we _ anymore. “—That you and yours are behind Pestilence coming out of retirement?” 

“Who says ‘we’re’ behind it? He’s been wanting to come out of retirement for ages now.”

“I thought he’d given up on the idea after the whole SARS debacle,” Crowley grumbled. 

“Eh, second time’s a charm I s’pose,” Hastur chuckled. “Either way, you and your angel ought to keep your noses out of this. If you don’t, well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” 

“Who’s to say we can’t stop one of the horsemen this time?” the demon hissed. 

“Because now, we know to watch you both.” the Duke whispered. 

“But what can you do if you catch us?”

“I’m sure we can  _ arrange  _ something.”

Before Crowley could answer, a crowd of people emerged from the passage leading away from the customs checkpoint for non-Americans. All of them were wearing N95 Masks. 

_ God bless it, _ Crowley thought to himself. He turned to reply to Hastur, desperate to have the last word, but the Duke of hell was already gone. 

“This way Mr. Fell!” 

Crowley’s ears perked up. A group of three young girls, all wearing masks, had exited the passage with stamped passports. Lagging behind them, tottered a rather tubby, frightened looking angel. 

_ Has he been crying? _ The demon wondered. Aziraphale’s eyes were red and somewhat swollen. Crowley had never seen the angel cry before.  _ Perhaps I should have called or something, _ the serpent thought guiltily.  _ Well, no use dwelling on it now. Lets get on with it. _ He raised his hand to grab the angel’s attention as he finally stepped into the light. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] The US PATRIOT Act https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Patriot_Act  
> [2] Oh Aziraphale, you sweet summer child.  
> [3] See 2001 Invasion of Afghanistan https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/War_in_Afghanistan_(2001%E2%80%93present)  
> Invasion of Iraq https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2003_invasion_of_Iraq  
> Abuses of the Patriot Act (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Controversial_invocations_of_the_Patriot_Act)  
> PRISM https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/PRISM_(surveillance_program)  
> I could keep going with these but we'd be here all day.  
> [4] I may change the type of plane later, because I couldn't verify that Boeing 787s are used by Virgin Atlantic to fly from Heathrow to JFK. I'll try to clarify this as soon as possible.  
> [5] For my international readers, the Fifth Amendment of the constitution states (among other things) that those accused of a crime can't be forced to implicate themselves by serving as a witness in a trial in which they are a defendant, among other things. "I Plead the fifth" is still used as a colloquial response by Americans when they wish to avoid answering an intrusive question. Here's the actual passage from the constitution if you want to read it. https://www.law.cornell.edu/constitution/fifth_amendment


	8. The Center Cannot Hold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for an actual reunion!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey loves, I'm alive...AND I HAVE A BACHELOR'S DEGREE! Now that I'm no longer technically in school, I'll be able to maintain a slightly more regular update schedule. I'm gonna try and aim for one new chapter every week. I'm not sure when/where this story will end yet. I think a lot of that depends on whether things continue to get better in New York. No citations on this chapter because it's really just characters talking. I promise the next update will have more in the way of action, angst, and Character Development™.

The passengers of Virgin Atlantic Flight 3 disembarked together in silence. Mary and the Angel caught up with Lena and Joanna at the gate before making their way to the Customs checkpoint as a group, all of them still wearing their masks. The old man from the plane slipped away quietly with his wife towards the checkpoint reserved for US Citizens. Lena watched them with disdain as they went.

“Why was he even travelling?” she muttered. 

“He’s American,” Joanna replied. “I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t want to be sick away from home.”

“Me neither,” Mary shuddered. “Remember when I got influenza when I first came here?”

At this, Joanna let out a laugh. “Yea! You thought you had malaria.”

“Oh I was so miserable! I think it was worse when I found out it was something I’d never had before.”

“You’ve had malaria before?” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. 

“All of us have,” Lena answered defensively. “It's not like it is in those UN Commercials, you know. I mean, it’s awful, but I got it because I didn’t tuck in my mosquito net. It’s not because we’re poor or stupid—”

“Lena, he wasn’t suggesting that,” Joanna sighed. 

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose beneath his N95. “Do people really say things like that to you?”

Lena pursed her lips and nodded. “People in places like Britain and America think that bad things only happen to people who deserve them. They look at people who are sick, or poor, or uneducated, and assume that they got where they are because they didn’t try hard enough.”

“People tell themselves that sort of thing everywhere,” Joanna said thoughtfully. “They do it because it makes them feel like they have more control than they do.”

Aziraphale glanced at the floor. He’d long observed humanity’s tendency to frame misfortune as the result of moral failings. He’d never quite understood it. Yes, there were consequences to people’s choices, but then there were also other subtler factors at play. Before he could meditate further on the ineffable nature of such factors, the passage from customs to the airport exit came to an end, and Mary’s voice pulled the angel back to reality.

“Mr. Fell, this way!”

“Who’s that fellow over there? Was he on the plane with us?” Joanna whispered. 

Aziraphale looked up and immediately felt his heart leap into his throat. A lanky, black-clad figure was waving at the travellers from across the room, or rather, he was waving at Aziraphale. Crowley’s nose and mouth were covered with the same mask Aziraphale was wearing, but perched above it, were a pair of sunglasses. 

“Oh! Mr. Fell is that your friend?!” Mary exclaimed. “Can we meet him? We should probably thank him for all the masks.”

Lena and Joanna looked as though they wanted to object, but Mary was running towards the demon before they could stay anything. 

Crowley stopped and stared. One of the young women walking ahead of Aziraphale had  _ noticed _ the demon, and appeared to be walking towards him. Crowley was not terribly accustomed to being  _ noticed _ by other humans when he didn’t intend to be. He found it a little unsettling. 

It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with the young woman. She was of average height, with carnelian skin, bright eyes, and a cheerful expression, even behind her mask. 

“Hi! Are you a friend of Mr. Fell’s? I’m Mary!”

Crowley stared at her in utter shock for half a minute before glancing helplessly at Aziraphale, who was hurrying up behind her. 

“Ah! Mary, this is Crowley. Crowley, this is Mary. She sat with me on the plane.” The angel quickly waved the other two women over. “That’s Lena and Joanna. They’re all students here in America.”

“Can he not see very well?” Lena whispered to the angel. “Why’s he wearing sunglasses indoors?”

The demon immediately blanched. No demon had ever dared to comment on his sunglasses to his face before. No human had ever dared to do so either. 

_ The audacity of this girl, _ Crowley thought to himself. She was barely half his height, and couldn’t have been more than 21 years of age.

“Oh! No he can’t see very well. He’s got a condition. The light hurts his eyes,” the angel answered, a little too quickly. 

_ Nice save _ , Crowley thought as he swallowed his outrage. Really, he couldn’t help but be impressed at the angel’s ability to lie under pressure. 

“We just wanted to thank you for the masks,” the tallest of the three woman said diplomatically. “One of the passengers on our flight was very sick. We don’t know if he had it, but it never hurts to be safe.” 

Crowley’s yellow eyes widened in shock. “Where is he?”

“He was American so we were separated at customs. He’s probably left already.” Joanna answered. 

The demon desperately wanted to excuse himself to hunt down someone, anyone, be it the passenger himself or whatever nitwit had let someone in such a condition fly in the first place. Aziraphale could feel the demon’s wrath thickening the air around them, and gave Crowley’s elbow a gentle squeeze. 

This small, benevolently innocuous gesture shocked the demon out of his anger. A new, clearer awareness of those around him hit him like a cold wave. Everyone around him, the young women, the angel picking at Crowley’s elbow, they were all frightened. The shortest of the girls, Lena, was putting on a brave, almost belligerent front. Her eyes were clear, keen, and sharp, even as anxiety welled up within her like a drop of ink in a glass of water. The woman who’d greeted Crowley, Mary, was so hopeful, open, and warm that the demon honestly found it a bit overwhelming. However, she was also rattled, and her charitable front had been visibly dampened with uncertainty. Oddly enough the tall, lanky girl, Joanna, seemed to be the least affected. She was scared, just as everyone else was. However, her very being was already infused with a deep, dark grief over something that had happened in the past that Crowley couldn’t quite make out. Over time, the grief had calcified into resilience, and perhaps a bit of resignation and acceptance of whatever was to come. 

_ Fuck me _ , Crowley thought. 

“So, are you all headed straight to your planes from here?” Aziraphale asked anxiously. 

The three women nodded in unison. 

“My flight isn’t for another three hours,” Mary sighed. “I thought I would get something to eat...but I don’t feel like eating much of anything right now.” 

“That would be wise,” Crowley grumbled. 

“Your flights aren’t too long, are they?”

Lena let out a small chuckle. “We came here from the other side of the world to study. It’s not like we aren’t used to long flights.” 

“I should call my mother before my next plane,” Joanna murmured thoughtfully. 

“Oh! I’m sure she’d be so relieved!” Aziraphale exclaimed. 

Crowley glanced warily around the terminal. He wasn’t sure if Hastur or any of his or Aziraphale’s former associates were lurking around the airport, but he was certain he didn’t want to find out. “We need to go,” he hissed. 

Aziraphale nodded and quickly exchanged good-byes with the women. 

“Good luck Mr. Fell!” 

“Good bye!” 

“Safe travels! Thank you for the masks!”

“Your welcome Ladies! Be safe!” The angel replied as the girls hurried into the terminal. Immediately, as soon as the women were out of sight, Aziraphale felt Crowley tugging on his arm. 

“Alright, garden party’s over,” the demon growled.

The angel glared at the demon in shock. “What in God’s name—?”

“No time. Jussssst follow me.” Crowley hissed. 

The two collaborators hurried towards the parking lot, where Crowley’s Bentley was illegally occupying two parking spaces. Ordinarily, the Demon would have satisfied himself by using one parking space, and simply smiting anyone who laid a finger on the automobile. But his run-in with Hastur had utterly spoiled Crowley’s appetite for indulging in wrathful activity. He bundled Aziraphale into the car through the passenger door, slid into the driver's seat, turned the key, and pressed hard on the gas. The two immortal beings were speeding away from the airport within the next ten minutes.


	9. Miracles on the I-678

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An angel and a demon catch up with each other while driving on the I-678.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry that took so long! This chapter was absolute murder to write. Also things in NYC have been a bit dicey recently because of the protests and the NYPD's response. If you're wondering whether or not current political unrest will play a role in the plot of this story later on, the only answer I can offer right now is ":)." Hope any of you taking part in protests are staying safe and healthy.  
> Remember, ACAB, Black Lives Matter, and don't Fuck the Police when you can shit on their car hoods instead. Don't use anything other than water or saline to rinse pepper spray out of your eyes, keep the number of your emergency contact written in sharpie under your sleeve, make sure your phones have secure passwords, and remember to wear a mask when you're in a protest where social distancing is difficult.  
> If you want to learn about how to be a protest medic, you can take an online certification course through the red cross and you can use this book one of my comrades wrote as a resource.  
> https://riotmedicine.net/static/downloads/riot-medicine.pdf  
> (please open the link above using a browser other than google chrome to minimize bugs)

The two immortal beings spent the first few minutes of the drive into New York in tense silence. Crowley was visibly rattled, driving like a sinner with the devil at his back, which was actually quite understandable given the circumstances. Aziraphale was too nervous to even object. 

“I’m sorry,” the angel whispered. 

Crowley rounded on him with a low hiss. “Ssssorry?”

“Not about the miracle,” Aziraphale stated, not a little defiantly. “I had to do that. It was the right thing to do. It was what She—” he paused, quickly remembering who it was he was speaking to. “It is what I was made to do.” 

Crowley let out a sigh. He was altogether far too frightened and tired to scold the principality. Things were awful enough as it was. It wasn’t as though a quarrel would solve anything. Best to change the subject. 

“You can take the mask off now, you know.”

“Oh! Thank heaven!” The angel exclaimed before removing the piece of protective equipment from his face. Crowley immediately felt his heart fall into his stomach upon seeing the angel’s features for the first time in three months.

“Sweet Satan…” he murmured in dismay. A dark, angry bruise had formed along Aziraphale’s cheeks and nose.[1] The angel’s eyes were still red and inflamed, and his nose was running. 

The principality merely glanced up at the overhead mirror and sighed. “Oh...well...I suppose that can’t be helped.”

The fact that Aziraphale didn’t immediately heal himself only heightened Crowley’s concern. As the demon extended the tendrils of his demonic powers beyond the bounds of his physical form, he became aware of more aches and pains coming from the angel. 

“Who in Satan’s name broke your ribs?”[2] He hissed indignantly. “And is that a burn?”

Aziraphale self consciously lifted his hand to his collar. “That’s from a month ago.” 

Crowley let out a low growl and pulled the Bentley into park along the side of the I-678 highway.[3] Aziraphale stared at the demon in shock. 

“Crowley, what are you—?”

“Sh!” Crowley whispered, grabbing the angel by the collar and pushing their foreheads together. 

Before Aziraphale could demand an explanation for this sudden manhandling, he felt a rush of warmth pulse through him. 

The dull ache in his side immediately subsided. The itching burn beneath the collar of his shirt healed over. Most impressively, and most noticeably, the bruises across his nose and cheeks immediately dissipated. 

The angel instantly let out a sigh that he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding back. “Thank you,” he breathed. “I’m sorry. You didn’t have to—d-do you think downstairs will notice that miracle?”

Crowley pulled away from his friend to restart the car, and sheepishly removed his own mask. “Doesn’t matter if they notice,” he hissed. “You’ll never guess who I ran into right before you disembarked.”

“Who?” Aziraphale asked, clutching his bag as Crowley slammed his foot on the gas. 

“You’ve heard of Hastur, right?” 

The angel’s face paled. “H-he’s a Duke of Hell, isn’t he?”

“Yea. Smug bastard,” the serpent growled. “Apparently he got a tip from upstairs about your little stunt with the masks.” 

Aziraphale let out another sigh of resignation. “Ah, I suppose that makes sense.” 

The lack of surprise on the part of the angel almost made Crowley pull over again. 

“What in heaven do you mean ‘that makes sense?!’”

The color in Aziraphale’s cheeks instantly deepened. “I had a bit of an….encounter….of my own, before I got your note.”

“What sort of ‘encounter?’” Crowley asked warily. 

“Wel—You see—back in February...I was very concerned about this whole plague business. I wanted to ask you about it…”

The demon winced as a horrible sense of guilt blossomed in his chest. Luckily the angel didn’t seem to notice. 

“I wanted to see if upstairs knew anything. So, I decided to call on Gabriel—”

Aziraphale was immediately thrown forward as Crowley slammed his foot down on the breaks. Thankfully, the angel’s seatbelt kept him from hurtling headfirst into the dashboard. 

“Crowley!” he squeaked. “What on earth—”

The demon’s face was now a bright, angry red. His glasses had fallen off revealing his wide, yellow eyes. 

“You SUMMONED Gabriel?!” Crowley spat. 

Aziraphale shrunk back into his seat. “You weren’t there. It wasn’t as though I had many other options.” 

“What in Satan’s name was your plan?! To treat him to dinner at the Ritz?!”

Aziraphale seemed utterly affronted at the very suggestion. “Nothing that extravagant. I did offer him cocoa.” 

Crowley let out what was probably meant to be a laugh, but emerged from his throat as a terrified croak. “How’d he take that?” 

The despondency that quickly clouded the angel’s expression hit the demon like a punch in the stomach. 

“Not well,” Aziraphale murmured, his fingers darting back to his collar. “He refused to tell me anything. Said it was as much as I deserved for interfering with the end of the world.”

A terrible, infuriating thought suddenly occurred to Crowley. “Is he the one who hurt you, angel?” 

The principality’s silence, which seemed to suck all the air out of the car, did more than enough to confirm Crowley’s suspicions. The demon’s face darkened, and smoke began rising from the place where his hands clutched the steering wheel. 

Aziraphale glanced up in horror. “Goodness, Crowley—”

“S’fine,” the demon hissed, removing one of his hands from the wheel. 

Aziraphale let out a small squeak as he noticed that faint impressions from the demon’s fingers had been permanently imprinted onto the rubber.

“C-Crowley—”

“Not pulling over,” the demon snarled. “I’m alright. Just, need a minute to process everything.”

The angel couldn’t help but wonder how on earth—or in heaven for that matter—speeding down the I-678 at 90 miles an hour could possibly be conducive to the digestion of bad news. Thankfully, Crowley seemed to agree, as he slowed down the car so it was running at a cool 50 miles per hour, removed his glasses, and let out a long sigh. 

“I’m such a fool,” Aziraphale murmured, sinking further into his seat. “I’m sorry.”

“Sh—” the demon groaned. “Don’t—I’m not angry at you.”

The principality looked far from convinced. 

“I mean it,” Crowley assured him. “I just—why didn’t you heal yourself?” 

Aziraphale pressed his lips together in thought. “I—I don’t know, really. I haven’t felt like doing much of anything really. I’ve been so frightened.” His color immediately deepened as soon as the words were out of his mouth. “It’s incredibly silly, I know—”

“No it’s not,” the demon interrupted. “That makes sense.”

The two immortal entities sat in silence for another minute before Aziraphale spoke once again. 

“What have you been doing?” He asked, genuinely curious. “Have you really been here since January?” 

“Nah. Got here last week. I’m renting a little place in Harlem. January I was in Wuhan.” 

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Wuhan?”

“Yea, big city in Hubei Province—Well—last time I was there in 1911 it was three little cities, but that mustachioed fellow, Sun Yat-Sen, he and his lot decided to merge them all together.[4]” 

The angel’s eyes lit up in recognition. “Ah yes. Wasn’t he killed?” 

“Nah. Gallbladder cancer.[5] His people are the ones that got pushed onto that tiny island [6] by the round bugger in the funny suit.” 

Aziraphale blinked in shock. “You mean...Mao Zedong?”

“Yea, him,” Crowley said dismissively. “Pity. I always liked China.”

The angel looked absolutely flabbergasted. “Are you saying you’re a communist?”

“Nah,” the demon chuckled. “I liked them long before that. They call themselves ‘The Middle Kingdom,’ Angel. They literally think they’re the center of the world. It’s adorable.” 

“The British do that too,” Aziraphale muttered. 

“Yes,” the demon hissed defiantly. “And it’s just as hilarious then.”

The principality pressed his lips together in disapproval. “I suppose it makes sense that you and your lot would find that sort of thing funny.” 

“C’mon Angel, you can’t tell me that a massive country, an infernally complex bureaucracy, and an army with the power to wipe out the rest of the world if it wanted to, all being let by a little frumpy monarch or a group of grumpy old men isn’t funny.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Nothing good has ever come of humans believing they’re the center of the universe. It’s not healthy. Who would even want to be at the center of the universe? It sounds absolutely ghastly.” 

“Lucky us. The only human we’ve ever met who could’ve pulled it off knew that,” Crowley mused. 

The angel couldn’t help but smile at this. “Lucky for the world,” he murmured. 

“Did you see him off before you left?” the demon asked. 

Aziraphale shook his head. “No. I didn’t want to burden him with any of this. He’s only a child. He doesn’t need me raining on his parade.” He paused, “I do hope they pull him out of school for this though.” 

“I wouldn’t worry,” Crowley replied. “It doesn’t affect kids much...or we don’t think it does.”

The angel glanced back out the window. For a brief moment, he’d almost forgotten about the circumstances under which this reunion was taking place. He almost felt guilty for feeling better than he had in months. 

“So...tell me more about what you saw in China.” 

Crowley winced. “So I got a bit tangled in Wuhan. He’d been there since november, but he’d already left by the time I got there. From thereabouts I went to Bangkok,[7] Seoul—just barely missed him both times. The Koreans launched this whole program to lock down the pandemic.[8] I think they’re actually gonna be ok.”

“You didn’t look in the North?” Aziraphale murmured. 

“Heavens no. Haven’t you met Pestilence?” 

The angel gave a small, frustrated huff. “No.” 

“Never shared a beer with War? Or maybe Pollution? Pollution was his protegé, so she’d probably know the most about him.”

“I try not to make a habit of fraternizing with the horsemen of the apocalypse.”

“Eh, probably for the best,” the demon murmured to himself. “You don’t want War to rope you into a drinking contest. You’ll black out and wake up in the bloody Hague.”[9]

“I’ll try to keep that in mind,” the angel replied impatiently. “Anyway, you were saying?”

“Oh yea! Pestilence! So, most of the Horsemen, they spend most of their time in...eh…” Crowley wrinkled his nose as he struggled to think of the proper word. “If I were a human political scientist or something I’d say ‘developing countries,’ but what the hell is ‘development’ anyway? Like what is it we’re waiting for them to develop?[10] Doesn’t make sense. Anyway, they stay in countries where they—uh—” the demon cleared his throat. “They stay in countries where they are a problem.” 

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Could you...give me an example?”

“Yea, so War, she’s been hanging out in Syria and Iraq for most of the last half decade.[11] Before that she was in...dunno if it’s Israel or Palestine.” 

“Just say the Roman Province of Judaea,” the angel sighed. 

“Fine. But you get the idea. Now Pollution, she prefers Russia. There’s this little town called Dzerzhinsk. Ghastly place.[12] She’s also been known to spend weekends in the Dominican Republic [13] when she’s in the mood. At least the weather’s better there.”

“What about Famine?” Aziraphale asked, sincerely curious. 

“Yemen.[14] Sometimes he meets up with War. Thick as thieves, those two. I mean War and Pollution still have their little get-togethers in Vietnam.[15] But they haven’t been friends for as long.” The demon paused to flash a wicked grin in the angel's direction. “Also, War and Famine have something special—y’know what I mean?”[16]

Aziraphale blanched. “Are you suggesting that two of the four horsemen of the apocalypse are—”

“C’mon Angel, everyone knows that. It’s not like they’re coy about it,” Crowley snickered. “Anyway, most of the Horsemen, when things are normal, or when the apocalypse isn’t happening, they stay wherever they’re able to cause the most chaos. So that’s usually poorer countries. Wherever the wealthier humans feel like bungling things up the most.” 

“I suppose that makes sense,” 

“Yea, but their goal is never to stay there. Ideally, when the conditions are right, they’ll want to poke their heads into the wealthier countries that are usually doing the bungling.” 

Aziraphale swallowed hard as the implication of what the demon was saying washed over him like a cold wave. “So...Pestilence wants to do the same thing?”

“Yup.” 

“B-but—” the angel stammered. “What on earth could’ve possessed Pestilence to come out of retirement?” 

“Oh he’s wanted to for years. He made his first attempt back in 2004 with that whole SARS business. Then he mucked about with MERS, Ebola,” here the demon couldn’t help but smirk. “That last one was a real misfire. You can’t get away with starting a pandemic with a disease that’s spread through bodily fluids.[17] It’s not 18-fucking-50.”[18] 

“I wouldn’t know,” Aziraphale replied, primly. “It's all awful, all the same.” 

“Oh it gets worse,” Crowley piped up. “You see the Horsemen love following each other. Wherever Pestilence settles, soon War’ll be coming in to scope things out. Then Famine, then Pollution—”

“D-Death?!” The angel exclaimed in horror.

The demon let out a low snort. “Death is always there, angel. He’s everywhere. Hardest working Horseman ever—well—not ‘born’—” 

“So what’s our plan then?” Aziraphale interrupted. “How do we stop this?”

Crowley shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Well...I haven’t quite figured that out yet.”

The angel’s face immediately paled. “Crowley!” 

“What?! I’m a bloody demon! I don’t fuck around with this whole saving the world business—”

“You stopped the apocalypse.”

“I mean...yea...but that wasn’t because I _cared._ It was because the whole thing was so inconvenient—”

“Inconvenient?!” Aziraphale exclaimed. 

“Yes! I mean—I enjoy living here on earth. I enjoy listening to music and driving around London and chatting with—” here Crowley stopped himself, “chatting with p-people.” 

“I suppose losing that would be _inconvenient,_ ” the angel murmured in disgust. He had half a mind to miracle himself back to London on the spot. “Inconvenient” indeed. 

Crowley seemed to sense that the situation had spun out of control, and he tightened his grip on the steering wheel accordingly. 

“I—Aziraphale?”

The principality glowered at the demon sitting next to him.

“What?”

“I’m sorry—that wasn’t what I wanted to say. What I wanted to say was...this thing that’s happening now, it’s awful. It’s not worse than anything I’ve ever seen before, but it’s bad. I called you here because I—I want to stop it, and I’m too rubbish to know how to do that. You’re—”

The angel’s gaze softened slightly. “Go on,” he whispered. 

“I called you here because I want to do something good—and I need your help.” 

For a brief terrible moment, Crowley was almost sure that the angel would respond by miracling himself out of the car. It would hardly be an unreasonable response given the circumstances. _Satan bugger me,_ Crowley thought to himself. _I’m such rubbish._

“Alright dear,” a voice murmured gently. 

The demon nearly jumped out of his seat with surprise. “What?!”

“I’ll help. I’m glad you came to me.” The angel’s tone had completely changed. It was far more tender, affable, and laced with an undercurrent of compassion that nearly brought tears of relief to Crowley’s eyes. 

“T-thanksss,” he hissed. “I’m sssorry.” 

“Don’t worry about it, dear,” Aziraphale answered. “Let's hurry home.”

[1][ Exhausted doctors and nurses post images of their bruised faces after long shifts wearing protective gear ](https://www.cbsnews.com/news/coronavirus-health-care-bruised-faces-masks-ppe-hospitals-doctors-nurses-italy-new-york/)

[2] [ Broken Ribs: Mayo Clinic Overview ](https://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/broken-ribs/symptoms-causes/syc-20350763#:~:text=In%20most%20cases%2C%20broken%20ribs,lung%20complications%2C%20such%20as%20pneumonia.): Broken ribs take 1-2 months to heal and it’s been a month since Gabriel broke Aziraphale’s ribs in “Angels in the Hands of a Silent God.” 

[3][ Interstate 678 ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Interstate_678)

[4][ Etymology of Wuhan ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wuhan#Etymology)

[5][ Death of Sun Yat-Sen ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sun_Yat-sen#Illness_and_death)

[6][ Republic of China ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Taiwan)

[7][ Coronavirus updates: How and when COVID-19 came to the US, a timeline ](https://www.usatoday.com/in-depth/news/nation/2020/04/21/coronavirus-updates-how-covid-19-unfolded-u-s-timeline/2990956001/)

[8][ A Timeline of South Korea’s Response to COVID-19 ](https://www.csis.org/analysis/timeline-south-koreas-response-covid-19)

[9][ International Court of Justice ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/International_Court_of_Justice)

[10] “That’s a valid question Crowley :) :)” --A recently graduated Political Science Major.

[11][ Syrian Civil War ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Syrian_civil_war)

[12][ Dzerzhinsk, Russia ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dzerzhinsk,_Russia#Pollution)

[13][ Bajos de Haina: The Dominican Chernobyl ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bajos_de_Haina#Pollution)

[14][ Famine in Yemen (2016–present) ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Famine_in_Yemen_\(2016%E2%80%93present\))

[15][ Use of Agent Orange during the Vietnam War ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Agent_Orange#Use_in_the_Vietnam_War)

[16] Yes, War and Famine are fucking. This is Canon now. I don’t care. I will die on this hill. If you wanna see a source for this headcanon, you can find one in my ass. Alternatively, you can find it in this article. [ The true cause of hunger and famine? War and weak governance ](https://www.weforum.org/agenda/2017/04/conflict-and-famine-time-for-honesty/)

[17][The Characteristics of Pandemic Pathogen](https://www.centerforhealthsecurity.org/our-work/pubs_archive/pubs-pdfs/2018/180510-pandemic-pathogens-report.pdf) (2018) : “The most probable naturally occurring GCBR-level threat that humans face is from a respiratory borne RNA virus, and so this class of microbes should be a preparedness priority.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also I'm trying something new with the footnotes :) Let me know if you have any questions/comments/concerns about it.

**Author's Note:**

> [1] Huanan Seafood Wholesale Market https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Huanan_Seafood_Wholesale_Market  
> [2] Ye Wei/Chinese Bushmeat https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ye_wei  
> [3] The Bat Vector https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2DsVhaXx8_I  
> [4] The Pangolin Vector https://www.cell.com/current-biology/pdfExtended/S0960-9822(20)30360-2  
> [5] SARS Outbreak https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2002%E2%80%932004_SARS_outbreak  
> [6] This conversation is based on an actual exchange that was recounted to me by a friend who is briefly mentioned as "the daughter" in this story.  
> *Sigh* Also yes, bats are occasionally sold as "bushmeat" in China, but I couldn't find any evidence that they were a direct vector for humans who were exposed to the disease in the Huanan Market. They aren't even listed as being sold there. I'm not an expert on epidemiology, or Chinese cuisine, but either way, no bats were butchered and sold by Pestilence in the making of this fic...as far as I know. He seems like a busy guy, so maybe I'm wrong.


End file.
